The Distant Joke
Silas. The name was called out by the bailiff, sharp and brittle as a twig snapping under a boot, and it pulled me from the ledger I had been balancing, the ink still wet and smearing into the grain of the parchment. I am forty-two years old, a border warden in the mist-shrouded valley of Oakhaven, and I have spent the last three months trying to prove my innocence to the High Court, a task...
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